TR 1
by Jay Puma
Summary: Enter the world of the most popular and controversal sport ever created, in which new means eager to paint. 2 hedgehogs, motivated and brought together by an incident, try to prevent more deaths and reveal the mastermind behind them, all while competing in a tournament of torture. Reviews highly appreciated. T for violence.
1. The Jailbird and the Old Man

_How'd they get away with murder five times in a row? _replays in my head and I can't dream. I know my body's asleep because it doesn't want to open my eyes. My fur bakes in the morning under a light layer under a heavy, hot layer. My hands don't want to wrench off this jacket either, huh?

The sound of steel hitting wood opens the bedroom door. My left ear can hear it in the back. "Still asleep? We'll never get good seats if you're still slumped on the bed." After I twitch to get my carcas ready, he adds, "You really need a bedtime."

Yesterday's clothes are my pajamas, and will probably be tonight's as well. Oh well, I can wash these super fast before I need them again. I pull away from the hug I was giving the bed and drag myself out. "I don't need... a bedtime," I huff, yawning afterwards. "I'll meet you outside." I need my scarf, shoes and breakfast.

The red that's an older version of the stripes on my head is wrapped around my neck, and I put on my shoes by stepping into them. Breakfast gets snatched as I walk past the counter, is warm as I bite into it. So that was the buttons on the microwave. I lock my apartment before I head downstairs.

His red eyes are old oven rods on low for a long time as he sits in his matching blue car, the sun bouncing off of it to attack sleepier people. "At least it doesn't take long for you to get out," he points out when I slide in. The car purrs and rises off the ground, then pulls forward.

"Thanks for microwaving the doughnut," I acknowledge before another bite. "Food makes us flesh creatures move faster."

"If you don't get enough sleep, you'll get injuries for once." The hums from the car as it moves in the glass tunnel take over the air. We're just above the skyline of midcenter Pleasure City. Skyscraping hotels are normal, but there's one that holds my attention.

I wonder if she'd live there, even if it's flanked by casinos. She belongs with the big jewels and the sleek butterfly-door cars.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you, Shadow?" Metal buzzes. "Is that all you can do?"

"Yeah," I let out with a sigh. "She's moved on, though."

"You think a _kid_ determines that she's moved on?" He cuts himself off after this.

I nod. "And there's him, too. He won't let me get close if he has a dad."

"Hmm. Okay. You know you might see her today. We're watching Phoenicia fight."

Silver Narkissos Phoenicia is a newbie to the sport, but doesn't go for the throat like the other newbies. He's a blade, which means he uses sharp projectiles, and has a wide machete he wields for melee. The kid has silver fur, two down curving head quills, and yellow eyes. He's fifteen, he was fourteen when he started.

I wasn't listening when the television announced his name. He caught my attention by wearing a backpack _and _a hat. Weapons are supposed to be on your person, not on your back. Who did he think he was?

He won, I growled then froze as the commentator congradulated Silver Phoenicia. My mind whirled. Phoenicia is _her _last name. And then he said something like "no suprise coming from the son of-"

"I guess I know who you're hoping to win," he adds, interrupting my thoughts.

I wouldn't be so sure. The other one's new, and new in this sport means blood thirsty. There's been at least four kills made by them, and he's one of the butchers.

When it gets dark for more than a few seconds, I straighten to pull a cap over my head. Metal doesn't appear in many fights, so he'll be okay. We enter the arena after flashing our season tickets, sitting in the second-closest row to the rail, two seats away from the wall that hides the concessions higher up.

"I'll be on the lookout for her," the robot informs. "If you don't wanna talk to her, that's fine."

"I'll talk," I mumble. "We didn't break, we just pulled away. I've been wondering how she's been."

To fill up the arena it takes around fifteen minutes before they settle in with their drinks and snacks. They have stomachs of iron if they can stuff their faces with popcorn as they watch someone get unseamed.

That doesn't happen very often, but there's a higher chance of that with _two _novices in the pit. Sure, Silver's a clean jailbird despite the blades, but his fifth fight challenged that, and his undefeated title.

His opponent had his maned neck in his arms. Phoenicia mustered everything to his arms, trying to pry him off. I was getting worried about her reaction to his death.

Both bodies fell away from each other, and I saw a knife that the other fighter used last week in the kid's left hand. A slice on the man's jugular told all.

He stole a weapon. And that was legal. Unethical, and legal. But I guess in a torture device disguised as a sport, ethics are pointless.

Silver didn't go deep enough to kill him, and I saw the punk track him down after and shake hands with him. He _apologized_ for it. Bits and pieces fluttered in my ears, and I knew that the borderline irritating voice belonged to him. Something along the lines of, "should've...aimed for your arm...Very sorry."

He won because the guy was exhausted, but other newbies are fight-to-the-death types. Face it, one of them is gonna die.

I don't want it to be Silver. If she cries because someone she loves dies in this horrible sport I made I'll never forgive myself.

The announcer is earning his pay now. "Ladies and gentlemen. The match is about to begin, in ten..." Two holes aligned with each other appear in the pit below. "Nine..."  
"Eight..." A few conveyor sounds hum from them. "Seven..."

"Six..." I can see Silver's indigo hat. "Five...Four..." The hog doesn't pull out the machete from his backpack like a kitana yet. The other kid's not earning anything, he killed someone last week; if he wants my attention, it's gonna be a glower. "Three..." Stance time: Silver's not leaning forward, other newbie must be trying to charge. "Two..."

There's no "one," unless that's what the horn says. The red-orange fox is kicked in the back of the head when the jailbird takes off, and his coat/tail feathers flow after him. Bullets fly after, but they only hit his coat or just miss.

When Silver's up the wall, metal soars into the left arm of the pursuer, the hunched shoulders providing a stepping stone for the hog. The fox turns around, and he needs to get out of that machete's way quick-

These newbies just don't like giving into a gash. His punch hits air, but his forearm swings to knock the kid aside. Uppercutted, the fox stumbles, he gets tripped, and Phoenicia backs away.

A cyan disc hits the right shoulder and disinegrates after impact. The fox is down, round's over. Silver hesitates, like he wants to go help him up, but maybe he's known rejection; he's a kid, and as far as I know, (junior) high schools are the harshest places in the world.

They're taken into their Clean Rooms and the energy from the match returns to the stands. "Second match should be interesting," Metal comments.

Two minutes and then the horn goes off to start the fox's violent comeback. He throws a net at the hog, which keeps him from taking off. This gives enough time for the red-orange blur to pin him to the wall just as he frees himself.

The painting begins as the fox's right glove, adorned with claws as always, starts ripping skin. Pained growls turn into screeches as fabric tears. The audience is gearing up for a victory cheer-

A boot shoves itself into the newcomer's face, forcing him to the ground. Silver catches himself as he tumbles to the ground, and his right glove starts to turn red as he holds his side. A tooth rests on the floor, and the hog rises to stay in. The fox gets up, and then-

A sci-fi sound whips the fox into the wall behind him, and then Phoenicia kicks his opponent's head into it. That ends the fight when the fox is blacked out. Crowd's in the frenzy.

Silver collaspes because the only blood stains are his. The white coat doctors carry the boys into the Clean Room again, dismissing the arena.

Metal and I wander to the stairs, which no fans use, down to the cool lounge where any players who enter the building end up one way or the other. Blue tile floor and blue walls calm any shaken or anxious athelites. This is the lowest level of the building, with two hallways leading to each of the Clean Rooms.

Neither of the players have emerged: the other newcomers who hang around him, the Grim Reaper Gang, as us more experienced players call them, are lounging around on the left side of the room, and to the right-

Her hair's down and her three bangs are cut and brushed up. Midnight blue eyes stare down the hallway and pray. I'm stopped by the sight of her, she's about...thirty-three now? But she looks younger, like twenty.

"Go on," Metal eggs, nudging my shoulder. He follows me as I walk over to the table where she sits oblivious to us. Once my footsteps get a little louder, she turns.

I stare into her night sky eyes, just like some sixteen years ago. I feel as though they are her, and everything she is. Makes me wonder if my eyes do the same with her.

My body sits at the table before I snap out of it. The robot buzzes, "Hello, Selene. It's been awhile," as he sits down to my right.

She smiles with a hum. "Yes it has," her soft purr tickles me. "How have you two been?"

"The usual." Will he leave us alone for a bit? Though without him, maybe we'd just be staring until Silver wandered out of the hall.

"And you?" I wonder. "Have you been busy?"

Her pale gray shoulders raise when she gives me a sheep's grin. "Yeah...I've been busy with Silver. I needed some help from my brother most of the time." She glances down the hall and whispers "What's taking so long?" Then she turns back to us, "So, what do you think of him? He's good, right?"

"Shadow's not a fan," Metal replies.

"Well...It's his technique, really. His last minute escapes..." I add in a mutter to a crumb, "and his backpack."

"I know," she coos. "He just wanted somewhere to put that big blade of his."

"He's weighing himself down."

"Funny," she mews, with some giggles, "that's just what he says about you and the way you stuff your cargo pants with ammo. There's nothing else in it," she assures. "It'd fall out of the holes."

"How's he get away with a hat, too?"

"They check the weapons before debut, and the hat wasn't breaking any rules." Selene Phoenicia hums her laughter again. "Then again, you did start TR-1. You've been here longer than anyone else now, undefeated, so if it violates-"

"It doesn't matter anymore," I grumble, "since people get away with violating my rules all the time nowadays."

She flinches and her eyes darken and lower. "I know...There've been kills in the arena. All by newcomers. What is it the classes are teaching them?"

Metal and I straighten. "Classes?" we say.

"Well, there is a class for anyone who wants to learn TR-1, which is run by the TA."- TR-1 Association-"Most of the newcomers have been taught by those classes. The only newcomer I know who hasn't taken the class is my Silver."

"You're a good teacher," Metal buzzes. "After all, it was Shadow who coached you, right?"

We flinch together as we remember those days. Her excited breaths as she noticed her blows nudging me back and my approving smile echo in my head. The times I remember smiling were always with Selene smilling with me. I sigh knowing that those days have passed, wishing that they were still here.

"Yes..." she says in a sigh. "Shadow was the best teacher I could've had." The stars in her eyes twinkle at me. Does she still think of me like that?

"On that note, I'm coming to the club too," she says, a sheep's smile spreading.

"You are?" Why's my voice a little shaky?

"Yeah..." and the smile is stabbed by a sighing frown. "But Silver fights next on the same day I fight, so I'm anxious he's not going to have enough time to practice if his injuries are serious..." Her eyes are glasses in freefall. If a white coat walks out and waves a "come here", I am going to shoot myself-

Wait a minute. I pat my left pant pocket, and feel the handle. Yep, didn't take those out either. Maybe Metal's right about a bedtime.

"Oh, thank goodness!" and Selene teleports over to the only other silvery hedgehog in the room to squeeze him. "Are you all right, sweetie?"

The only thing that shows he's had his life threatened is the left-hand stained tear on his black sleeveless shirt. Seamless. That's how advanced the medical field has gotten for this torture.

"I'm okay, Mom," he says as she switches back and forth between rubbing and hugging his head with transitional kisses. "It's okay."

"You were in there for such a long time that I thought- Oh Silver! You always scare me when this happens!"

"Sturdy, isn't he?" Metal buzzes to me.

I puff. "More like cocky."

"We don't know if this happens after all the matches he's been in. She's only a mom and he's only a son."

After one final kiss on the forehead, she looks back at us. "Well, boys, I've got to go. Bye, Metal."

It shouldn't tickle when she beams right at me with a open smile and says, "Bye, Shadow." And this is before she adds, "If you still have my phone number, I'd like to catch up sometime. Maybe I could even have my old coach back." That tickles more.

But that doesn't mean I'm happy when Silver shoots me a warning glare. His eyes are molten searing gold. _Back. Off. _

"I told you he had a dad," I mutter to the robot, who responds with a hum.

* * *

Looks like he gets the message, if he has the intentions to earn it. Just 'cause Mom seems as free as a bird doesn't mean she is. If he manages to get closer, I'm gonna kick that old guy's-

"Wait here, okay?" Mom says, and goes downstairs to get the car. I figit. Don't leave me here alone with- Murderers, 'cause Shadow's gone. There's a free seat farthest from them, and I flop into it with a sigh. My left thumb brushes where the scar would be. Can't say I've been in more pain.

"Hey, you," a guy from the Overkill Club puffs. I don't have the energy to get my eyes off the ceiling. "You shouldn't have won this one." _Oh really? _"You shouldn't be here in the first place anyway. You weren't properly trained."

"Define 'properly,'" I breathe.

A growl introduces this, "You gotta take a class to get in here, you brat!"

"Yeah," a girl adds. "He probably made his parents bribe their way around it."

"But," another one whispers, "I've heard that his mother was coached by the one and only Shadow the Hedgehog."

"That's bull"-crap, the guy puffs. "Shadow never goes anywhere except his next fight. You might even say he moves from arena to arena, like a hobo."

"I heard he shuts himself up in his house and has a police escort to each match."

Garbage. Mom knows a lot about Shadow, and told a lot of stories. Yeah, she was coached by Shadow. She said he has an apartment in this city, and he came to this match. The most popular rumor is that he's a killing machine.

"He's not," Mom corrected. "No matter how deadly he is, he'd never try to kill anyone. That's his rule."

Shadow the Hedgehog was in one of the Founding teams of 3-For-All, TR-1's parents. The rules were the same, except there were teams of three made up of one Melee, one Projectile, and one Unique, where magic and any non-Melee -Projectile abilities fall under, like my psychokinesis and Mom's psychic ablities.

His team broke up later, and he started TR-1, short for Three-foR-1. That's because a reporter who got in on the break found out it was because of Shadow. His article had said something along the lines of "It doesn't make sense to disband three...for one."

Mom's on my tail in the car. "I heard what you sent to him," she starts. "How do you know he has those feelings towards me? I told you it's rude to snoop around in people's minds." I'm slumped in the passenger seat, arms crossed, feet propped on the dash. My hat tips down so the aqua visor shades my eyes. Why's she defending the old man?

"Would you stop calling him that? I'm only one year younger than him."

"Didn't you say it's rude to snoop around in other people's minds?" I puff. She groans.

"You're my son, the exception," she grumbles. Taking a deep breath before, she tries again. "It's just, we're old friends, Silver. We haven't seen each other in years."

"He still needs to back off; Did you forget about Dad?" I straighten up so I can peek out the window. Like everytime I mention him he'll just pop up among the scenery. If he does, I wouldn't know him from a stranger.

With a sigh, "No, I haven't. He's probably busy now."

For the thousandth time, "What's he like?" as I gaze up at her.

Her dark eyes twinkle as she hums a laugh. "He's very nice once you get to know him. Loyal, kind, strong and the right amount of protective."

It hurts that she never says what he looks like. "Why are you and Shadow friends?" I mutter.

"It's a long story," she coos.

"You only curled your tail for Dad, right? No one else?" A breath is let out when she nods nice and slow.

My right hand slides into my left pocket and pulls out my phone. Dialtone buzzes in my ear.

"Hi there!" she chirps, like X-mas bells. "I saw you fight today, I was worried you'd gotten hurt." In this game, hurt means seriously injured. "Feeling better?"

"I miss you," I murmur. "After my next fight, I'll take a break to catch up with you." I miss that summer grass fur, and those sparkling aquamarines. "Maybe you could come and take me back. I'll help out with your mom's shop, too."

"Aw, you're so sweet, Shirubie." We don't want a reporter finding out about us, so my name's Shiruba over there, and her name's Sakura. "Mom'd love that."

"So, two weeks and you'll come here, okay?"

"Maybe I could stay with you, since you're busy. You promised you'd teach me how to fight, remember?"

I hum. "How could I forget? Okay, Sakura. You can stay as long as your mom will let you. Say hi to her for me."

"I love you."

My heart's a flying canary. "I love you. See you later."


	2. Recovery Day 1

The guy I'm fighting today is giving me a hard time. He seems to know my every move, and uses that to get me off guard. I have no idea what he is, because his clothes are covering and shading him.

My blade goes flying across the arena, and I call on my throwing knives. He dodges without hesitation as he comes closer. He's not running to me though.

Catching my last two blades in both hands, he sends them back and I'm pinned to the wall by my coat. He pulls a big knife from his pockets and chuckles. An evil glint comes off of his eyes. I scream because I can feel the ridges and spikes of his blade catching on tissue. Worse than last week.

Pulling it out, he flicks off some of the blood and keeps chuckling. The Mobian raises it to my neck and grins.

"Goodbye, _son."_

Gasping I jerk up from my bed. As I pant I run my hand through my mane to make sure. Just a really bad dream. A really, really messed up, fake nightmare. Why would Dad do that to me? Exactly, he wouldn't, right? Just calm down, calm down so Mom doesn't freak out.

Shuddering the thought out, I stretch and yawn. I roll across my bed until I fall off it. I wonder why hitting your head makes you awake enough to stand up? "Ouch," I grumble before rolling on my stomach and yawning again.

I shuffle into the hallway with the same itchy spot in my head and left hand fiddling around in my pocket routine. Why, who can say? When I'm in the front room I blink twice.

"Morning, my sleepy sweetie," Mom chimes from the kitchen. "How are you feeling?" As I make my way into the kitchen I grumble nonsense to my self.

"Okay," I mutter. Mornings after a fight are always like this. I grab a box of cereal and a bowl from different cabinets as I get the milk from the fridge. Today it's cinnamon squares.

"Hon-bun, you don't want pancakes?"

Like a sigh, "No." I wander over to the breakfast nook near the panorama window of Pleasure City after picking up a spoon. Unfortunatly that doesn't help because I'm used to the blinding glare off of buildings. I tilt the cereal into the bowl, probably looking like the guy who just lost his best friend.

After getting ready to shovel this into my mouth, Mom strolls over and sits across from me with her toaster pastry. She also has three pill bottles and the two things to make her milk chocolate. "Here you go," she says, setting my pills in front of me. "You sure you're all right?"

"Why not find out yourself?" I grumble before eating another spoonful. "I'm the exception."

"Take your pill, please. And you know I feel very invading when I do that." Her right hand rests on my left, and her thumb rubs it. "You can tell me anything."

I glance up at her. Her dark blue eyes are warm and her face is so caring... It's a face that makes you ask why. Why's she so happy when she has to take care of me all by herself? And Dad's never around, she must feel unloved _somewhere. _Sometimes I'm bratty and a jerk, she's still happy. You'd never guess that she suffers from depression like me.

"I'm tired, that's all," I let out. "My side still hurts even though it's all patched up. I was tossing and turning all night."

"It's your tissues probably. Tissues are harder to patch up than skin. I'm just glad you're okay. Are you sure there's nothing else that's bothering you?"

"Why don't we have any pictures of Dad?" I wonder, half to myself.

She freezes and darkens with a sigh. "Because..."

"I don't care if I'm not legit, I just wanna know I had one."

"You have a father, honey," she lets out. "He's still alive and well."

"But you don't tell me anything else about him, Mom. I don't get that! Why can't I _know?"_

That stabs her. Mom's white muzzle is drained of all the blood it ever had. Her eyes are small and her face is frozen. I pop the pill into my mouth before I forget about it, and a bad sticky taste goes down with it.

I'm sorry, Mom.

She's been shut up in her room since and that and my ribs hurt, like after a preview of a sequel and you feel like everyone's gonna die. At least the door isn't completely shut so I can just enter like a ninja after pushing it open a little.

Mom's okay; if she wanted to break her skin she would've done it in the bathroom. Something like tile is easier to clean than carpet. Doesn't calm me down but another good sign is that she's standing up looking at something and smiling at it like she did at me when I was small.

"You okay Mom?" I ask, like she's a cop and I'm on the side of the road. "I'm sorry about..."

"Do you remember this?" she says, tilting a drawing towards me. I smile back when I recognize the crayon markings of orange, yellow, blue, green and different shades of gray including white.

"Yeah, I remember. 'Mommy and Me', Silver Phoenicia, 4 years old." Soft laughs come out of me as I come closer. "You really like that, don't you?"

"It makes me warm inside," she says. "Whenever I look at this I think of you, and when I think of you, I feel as though I've got my own little sun in my heart." Looking at me, "The same little sun that's in you, shining out of your eyes."

The guilt tear is bubbling in my eyes, and that's how warm and fluffy she makes people inside. Forgive the really gross expression, but it's like the pus of shame swells up into a zit, and she says hot rags that just make it ooze out of you. Bleh, maybe I should've tried for food items...

"Love you, too, Mom."

* * *

I growl because I shouldn't curse. She wouldn't like me cursing at all, so I clamp my jaws shut and bang my head on the desk.

"Problem?" Metal drones. "Ooh," he says as he looks at the screen. "I think that some of the people on the Match Comittee must be either nerds eager for a showdown or they must've known about you and your love life."

"Of all the newcomers debuting every two-three weeks..."

"Heh-heh. Maybe I should start finding some tapes for you to study."

"Shut up..."

"Do you always have impending irony hanging over you like this?" That android. If I didn't know him, and he didn't look out for me... I would force my arm through that screen all the way through to the back of his spiky head. Impossible in most cases, but if you p-_tick _somebody off past tolerance, they can freaking tear off crust of the earth and fling it into space. And I just want to destroy this jerk for laughing at me, screw getting me off the cliff of Tolerance.

"Hey, it's just another fighter, okay? Another guy trying to knock you out." Knock me out, huh? "Just another punk wanting to go par-to-par with Shadow the Hedgehog, a Founder and a Starter, undefeated since way back when. Are you gonna lose to some newcomer punk?" My lips pull back when I hear "lose", and my throat growls when I hear "punk."

"No freaking way."

"That's my buddy," Metal laughs as he pats my back.

In the training arena, the big brother to the actual pit, we are alone. Many newcomers don't worry about approach. They worry about weights and treadmills. Pffft. Amatuers. Sure, that's a good lifestyle and decent approach to another sport, but TR-1 is not just a sport. You don't run laps in the pit unless you're being shot at.

Metal has this unique ability to copy another fighter's techniques by examining them. That's why he goes to arenas and watches recaps at nine. He's got enough data for Silver to be his dummy.

We get straight to the point, Metal using- well, actually, he's taken a long and about three shorter wooden sticks that make do for swords and strapped them together for the kid's butcher knife-machete child on steriods. "I'll use my markers for the knives, and well, for his Unique..."- he and I exchange a look that says, "Well, I'm/you're screwed."

We stand on the x's in the floor where we appear in the arena first round. He drops into offensive mode, leaning in, blade in right hand. _Metal_ knows I'm no glory-hound charger, and _Silver _only backs down when the other is bigger, really leaning in, and has only bloodlust in their eyes.

So he runs towards me, and I trip him with a side-step. He shouldn't run with knives. But he leaps to his feet, and charges. The blade thrusts, swings, and pushing me back. I jump and kick the blade back into Metal's pointy nose, some of the wood cracking.

Throwing my Glocks into the air, I catch them: right hand upside down, left right side up. The right hand shoots paint balls behind the robot's body, left in front, narrowing the space inbetween.

Red stains the palm and he drops his weapon. Silver's psychic, so if I aim for his head like a newbie, which means I'm likely to hit it, the first round will be over. Then I'll do the same to my own.

So a glove will be enough to weaken him in the pit. Knives are easy to dodge, so I'll need to concentrate on his psychic powers. I'll need to hit close.

Speed's a very strong skill of mine. I can hear the buzzes of his internal machine in a blink. A swift punch will knock him to the ground. "I think that'll do."

Metal processes a few grunts as he props himself up. "For today?" I emit a disapproving hum. "Shadow. You may be the best of the best but you have to stay on your toes. If you don't practice enough then you'll-"

"-succeed at keeping the kid out of the morgue." I say, eyes on my left hand with the Glock. "Maybe even out of the hospital if he's lucky."

"Right," he hums in a growl. "Are you that cocky?" Cocky? I don't think so. I'm fighting a kid whose middle name is Narkissos. Unless vanity isn't over-confiedence.

I'd say that I'm that _lethal._


	3. Tomorrow

Today, gray envelopes the city with its cold blanket, obscuring everything under it. These are my kind of days, when it's gloomy and hinting rain. Rain so that maybe I wouldn't have to fight them…

_"There are no exceptions, Shadow," _his dark demanding voice had said. _"You _will _fight. And if you don't, I'll make things worse off for you than they are."_

_ "I can't fight them! They're my-"_

"Enough! _I have had it with you. If you really can't fight them, then I'll let them beat you in the rain."_

I wince just thinking about it. A very cold night and the stars peeked out of the cloud, and then with utter longing I tried shouting to the people who really were my family. They treated me as their own, all of us as their own. But especially me.

"What are you thinking about?" Metal buzzes. "You've got a dark look in your eye."

"Metal, have you ever thought about your creator?"

"I do, but it's not in a thankful way. When I sleep, it's usually after I ponder the various ways to knock him to the floor. Is that who you're thinking about?"

"My old man." Nothing more than that; an old man, who made the murder- no, that was the one who took us away from him. The old man made us three for the good of people, and the tyrant made us murderers.

"You should stop thinking about your old man and try being happy," Metal grumbled. "D'you know scary you look when you get moody?"

Turning away from the gray window, "I can only imagine." I slump on the sofa. "Indulge me."

"You look like you're gonna plan on killing."

"Well, you know that's not likely. I've killed so many, if you think about it."

* * *

Mom's gullible enough to let me spend a day man-hunting. She's never gonna tell me soon enough, so why not do a little digging of my own? I'm walking into the library up to the desk.

"Um, is it possible to find birth records if you were born in this city?" I ask. "I forgot what the 'N' stands for in my middle name."

You can find _anything_ in this library. They keep the records in binders by year and month. In the section of my year, I pull out the December binder and flip through the dates.

Child's Name: Silver Narkissos Phoenicia; Date of Birth: December 16; Hour of Birth: 9:12 PM; Sex: Male; Mother's Maiden Name: Selene Luminia Phoenicia.

There's not even a _space _for a father's name on mine. The binders on the bookshelf rattled. If it weren't for these cuffs, certificates would be taking flight as binders hurled themselves off the shelves, and I'd be hearing my inner scream.

_Why can't I know?!_ I've got as much knowledge of Dad as I did when this certificate was issued! How in the world can I find out _now_ when I've got _nothing_ to start with?!

I jerk my head back up in a gasp. I do have something. It's been the only thing, for years, that symbolizes my father's existence. My charm. I pull it off my head and hold it tight.

_"Hey, Mommy!" _I'd squeaked, gazing at the newsboy cap on the top shelf. _"What's that?"_

She had laughed in her motherly, humming laugh. She picked up the navy-blue cyan-brimmed cap and smiled, but like she's sad. _"This is special, Silver."_

_ "Why? Is it magic?"_

_ "No, not really…" _She stoops down, still holding the hat. _"It's special because this hat belonged to someone important to me…It's your daddy's hat."_

_ "Really?! Can I try it on, please! I wanna wear daddy's hat!" _Laughing, she put the hat on my head, which was too big for it. But I held on to it in wonder…

_"I'm wearing _daddy's hat!"

One day, I swear…I'll find you.

* * *

It's funny, now that I think about it. I knew that Selene would move on, more likely, but I never thought she'd have a kid, a punk at that. But he's just a vandal compared to a killer. Tomorrow, I'll see about those "classes" Selene mentioned. I've got to be responsible for my mistakes, if anything.

Not before I show Silver how one plays TR-1, though. Then maybe we can discuss this killing business in the hospital room and find a start. Well…I don't want to mess him up too badly. He's the only reason we have teenage girls in arenas if the "Narkissos" didn't hint at it-

…He's got big ears…long legs…peach skin…a mane…

Huh.

_Crap._ Selene-I_ forgot!_

* * *

The second I found out I was fighting the old man was when I knew I would win. But Mom doesn't think so. "With Shadow, you never know what he's thinking. Chances are, the instant you make that first step to attack, he's already got a counter waiting for you. And he's fast, which isn't quite your strength."

"I'll limber up and work on my agility." She nods, and slumps on the couch.

"Oh, Silver… Why didn't I see this coming?" she moans through the fabric. "I don't want you getting hurt like last time… Shadow's not vicious, but… he's been known to send people to the hospital. Some so bad they couldn't fight again.

"And I was so worried about you last time!" My ears flatten at the image on the replay and memory: The douche with the claws tearing my tissues like paper; the torturous probing. In the end, I fell into a pool of red. All that red…it all came from me.

They moved me in a sound-proof room so Mom wouldn't hear. For a sport like this, you get your own mini-fridge full of blood, skin, organs and hair ready to be put into you, like a hospital.

Hospitals take their time though; make sure you're comfortable with having your body cut open and fixed. You can _refuse _to have a surgery, too. And if you get one, you won't feel a thing.

No such luck. They get right to surgery. For the doctors, who are paid by the TA if they do it without additional medical help, only care about patching. They're like the parents who tell you "say 'ow' and it's over" like you're getting vaccines, when you're being sewn back together with the various, agonizing procedures. There's no isoflurane. No morphine.

I vomited twice after this. "Buck up, kid," an older man puffed. You can tell he'd been in a war. "This ain't the worst thing that you can experience." I glared at him before I went back to puking on the tile.

So an ambulance is my ice cream truck. I don't think I'd mind passing out if that's where I went. Would the old man be surprised if I begged for a ride with the paramedics?

Somehow I can see him nodding at me, replying, "Now you see."

As I was having this moment, Mom's exhaustion had put her to rest. I lay a fleece blanket over her, and try to spot what I can do so she won't be so exhausted. Make a pizza for dinner. I'm pulling out one from the freezer when the phone rings. Caller ID's got no clue, so I let it ring.

"_Hey…it's me." _Who? Does Mom have a sweetheart?_ "Can I talk to you sometime? It's about…Silver." _

Pizza box crashes to the floor. I don't recognize the voice; no name, and he wants to talk to _Mom _about _me._

What's the number?! What is it?! But Mom wakes up before I can see it… So I go back to picking up the pizza.

I feel it. The person on the other line, no doubt about it- Mom can call back-

_Tomorrow? _…Did she even _practice_ for tomorrow?


	4. The Match

I went out into the arena late at night; decided to get a feel for the place again. I walked around the perimeter, felt all the dents in the concrete: bullet holes, impacts, blade imprints. They made this guy watch my every move, too. Yeah, like _I'd _try to increase the chances of an ambulance leaving this place.

My palm found the place where the fox pinned Silver to the wall. I stopped. "That's not what'll happen tomorrow," I said to myself, "or you can shoot yourself afterward."

The other guy straightened up like I was trying to talk to him, and I'd calmed him down with denial and started walking around again. Then he tried to ease himself of the dark arena where blood flowed to the knees, with the very person who filled it.

"Mr. Hedgehog? Pardon me for asking, but, do you always do this before a match?"

"No. It's just that I sort of forgot how the real thing was before."

"Oh." His voice quivered. "No one else does it."

That's because they don't forget as easily as I do, because my nightmares are memories I need to forget. But if I forget them, well, then, what good am I for? If I don't fight, they'll keep coming back, but who knows how much more the arena will fill with red if I do…_ Oh, look what you've done-_

"Mr. Hedgehog?"

"Sorry," I said, straightening up; Must've cringed.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm just tired," I assured, letting him lead me out of the blood and into a room they put together. I always stay at the arena the night before for three reasons. Publically, cameras swarm fighters as they come to the place. The next is that I don't wake up early enough to get to the arena in time.

But the truest one is that I some night, I'm going to wake up and pace around rambling and out of breath because of what's happened because of me and that I need to stop. And midday, Metal would find me hiding from the fight. I'd just get worse if it came to that.

I'm preparing my ammo for tomorrow in case I forget to. I empty the magazines and put in a full one in each gun. Tomorrow… tomorrow will be one of the hardest fights I've ever been in.

Silver's good, and he's a punk. I can imagine the taunts he'll use to push me. He shouldn't, but he will. I just have to be on defense until he tires, and… maybe I could plug my ears. It's not like I make the first move of the round. But the other buzzes… Guess not.

I go to sleep and thankfully there are no dreams waiting, just my old friend, Emptiness. Time flies with Emptiness; you wake up thinking only an hour's gone by, but six more went with it.

* * *

"Remember Mom," I keep starting with that; I feel like a parent-"There's no one- just a horn, okay? And keep your wits about you- you always wanna make sure-"

She laughs and I stop going over what she taught me. I reach into the back seat to grab one of my other blades that I learned how to use. It's good to use what you can. "You can use my Mary,"- a favorite arming sword of mine with a carving of a lady praying on the end of the hilt. She's a durable, classic blade and a neck saver.

"Mary? Are you sure?" I give the dull side a rub for good luck. _Keep Mom safe._ The metal winks at me. Good girl.

"I'm sure, Mom," I say, bringing my backpack with me as I face forward again. "Mary doesn't lie." Every other sword lying around my room is in it; my famous cleaver-style blade, a multitude of Japanese swords with varying lengths, a Dahong Palay, a balisword, and the newer arming sword.

"Are you sure you need all of those?" she said. "I hope you're not turning into one of those kids who like painting." Considering that I was providing the paint last time, no thanks. I slide my butterfly knives into my front pant pockets.

"I'm not going to find out I underestimated the old man later," I say, biting off a glove and wrapping tape around my palms with the free hand. I pull on a leather version of my gloves too. I guard my hands with my life; the Clean Room doctors aren't perfectionists with the insides. I have a trusted doctor for my hands and head, and I see him when I've had at least two blows to the head.

So I'll probably see him tomorrow. Or they may call him in as I'm rushed to the hospital.

* * *

I stretch as soon as I'm sitting up. Metal comes in instead of the building staff. "You seem well-rested," he says. I ignore and pass him, my "shut-up-it's-fight-day" cue.

The hour before the match is crucial, and one to be spent in front of a television. The cameras are a good way to see what side of your opponent you'll be fighting against, since if your enemy is usually someone with a light punch is coming into the arena with steam flowing out of his nose you're probably going to need padding. Another reason I camp in the arenas; I want the eyes on the enemy, not me.

His mom's dropping him off, and his backpack looks like a pin cushion for a giant. He's also pushing against his knee as his foot is across the dash. A twitch of a smile from me. Maybe the punk's nervous. The only other opponent he ever nearly lost to was one of my first. He was the other who broke off from his team, Roy Conway, I think. A dust-brown coyote with gray eyes, and he's got an entire life besides TR-1; he's got a family, too.

My stomach shrivels thinking about it. Lucky, lucky, lucky Roy; he's got everything he needs. I suppose a family who loves you must be earned; making a sport putting people in ambulances and hearses pulls you even further away from it.

Now he's out of the car, and they spring for him. He's put on his cocky smirk, strutting all the way to the door, feeding them.

"Nope! Not nervous at all. I just wanna keep it going for all the fans out there. I mean, two undefeated champs going head-to-head calls for a match to remember."

"Are you confident that you'll walk out still undefeated?" And he locks eyes with me, as if this is a two-way TV and he sees me as I see him. My ears prick, and the left corner of his mouth rises to become a smirk.

"I wouldn't say _walking,"_ he says to me. "I'll be carried out of there as a champion."

My ears tilt back into morning position. "That's a downer," I grumble, standing up and stretching. "I thought he'd come up with something a bit more poetic."

Metal makes a noise that registers as a puff. "He just said he's gonna win and all you can think about is how it _sounded?"_

"Well, Metal," I reply, "I may not be carried out of there undefeated in an arena, but as long as the kid is carried out on a stretcher and not a body bag, then I'll have won the battle."

His machinery makes noises and then he lets out an "I see. Champion or not, I won't be on your back if you win _that_ battle… But what if you lose that?"

I'm a wax figure at a museum. If the kid's blood is the new wall color, and he's lying in the blood carpet, with eyes wide in worry about what his mother will do without him…

My fist tightens. "I _won't_ lose that." I'm over to the other door in the lounge, where I need to get inside before Silver shows up to jinx the result. This is where the platforms are.

"Mr. Hedgehog, y-you're early!" one of the other guys who were here the other night inform. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever want to be," I reply, yawning afterwards. "How much early?"

"Twenty minutes, sir."

"Huh." Does it really take that long for Phoenicia to walk down here and prep? "Well, I'd rather be caught asleep in here than out there," I suppose, walking past.

"Hey, Shadow!" Metal calls from his spot on the couch. "Be strong. Fight back." I nod, reminding myself that it's not about winning against my opponent, no matter how cocky, no matter how weak, no matter how much I dislike their attitude.

It's always been about not losing to the savagery inside, created by being treated and forced like one.

* * *

I make it in the lounge with five minutes to- oh, he's not in here; just his robo-pal, watching the TV by the couch. I wonder why he doesn't just go and see the real thing; just a short walk away.

Except that the entire fandom of TR-1 has squeezed itself into this arena, and someone claimed to have sold their car to get money for a front row seat. The shots from the cameras are filled with signs, the announcers are calling this the clash of the titans, the dream-come-true match of prodigy versus master.

These things flash through my head as I walk into the door leading to the platforms under the arena. I can hear the cheering of the fans from above in this room. Any "Shadow" or "Silver" shouts can't be distinguished. Maybe they just want to see who's the champ.

Let's not disappoint, shall we?

"Arena's packed," the prep team says, counting my blades. They have to relay it to the computer in charge of the buzzers. The buzzer ending the round is controlled by conscience of the athletes, how much blood is on the walls and emergency factors, such as a fire, fighting in the audience, or personal issues, like relatives in the hospital. Those sorts of things. If the computer remembers how many went in, then later the staff can pick 'em all up.

"Yeah, I can't even hear myself think in here," I reply, then let out a stressed sigh. "Big day, it's a big, big day."

"Nervous?"

"Excited. I dunno, a little, I suppose."

"Only because you're fighting _him, _right?"

"Course. Why else would I be like this?" No time for an answer; the light flashes meaning "get on the platform now." My heart is bouncing off the walls of my rib cage while I calmly walk onto it. I cringe when it starts to swell up.

"You okay?"

"Fine," I assure, standing back up and getting my mind off it. "Just anxious."

The fans' collective cheers drown out the countdown. The elevator's moving (eight-seven). My heart feels like a balloon, swelling and swelling…

I'm in the arena, the fans roaring, screaming, squealing, and there he is, with his red eyes. He's not gonna move first; I finger the handles 'till I reach my Chinese Dao, in case I miss him directly.

The horn goes off, and something in my chest bursts as I lurch forward.

* * *

Kid cuts off tiny flecks of my hair, and I implant my heel into his back, praying I don't crack it. He tumbles but steadies himself in a crouch, sword held behind his head, maybe considering putting it back.

Nope. Just like Metal staged, a charging thrust followed by a swing. I carry out my jump-kick, and he nearly falls back on the ground again.

But he starts throwing his knives. My hair's been trimmed enough already; I dodge all but two, which I've caught, and if Silver's ever watched me in 3-For-All, he'd better watch _his _hair. I was Projectile in those days, and my aim is still deadly.

There's no time to show off; he swings the sword my way again, and it's time to put my gold cuffs to work. Every strike hits them with a _shink_, and we're almost to the wall. I plant my heel on the wall so he can't force me back.

He swipes my supporting leg and down I go. Idiot. (Well, maybe not; I'm not fighting _this_ fight. As long as the mistakes aren't fatal to him, it's a good move.)

"And to think I was nervous!" he says as he plans his next move. "This may be the cleanest, quickest fight ever."

* * *

I mean, come on! He's only good with _counters! _What was Mom so worried about, anyway? I sheath the Dao and finger for one of the shorter ones as he lays there, probably red-faced. That was a stupid amateur move.

He puffs, and then I see a corner of a-

I'm on my back, feeling the hard metals of the blades of swords and the sharp ones of my throwing knives. The sleeves of my coat get caught on-

His foot's on my stomach, and I hear him say: "I thought you wanted to keep it going for all the fans."

I cough, and it's really hard to hear in here. "Well, at least it's getting more _interesting. _I thought Mom was just idolizing you and your skills." His mouth twitches at "Mom." "You know, 'cause she always has."

He kicks me over to the wall as my coat sleeves tear away from my pins. His eyes were ablaze but he put them out a moment after, when he kicked me away. Mom's apparently a trigger of his that he doesn't like being pulled.

"This isn't social hour," he barks putting up his fists. "Let's go."

I whip out my butterfly swords and meet up with him to swing a right hook, but he dodges that and the rest of my attacks, then stoops to knock the wind out of me when my right lung hits the ground. Ah. He's an environmental user; a guy who uses the surroundings to fight back rather than always resorting to fist-to-fist melee or other fighting styles. _Stay on your feet, for once! _This is twice I've been blind to that trick!

I tuck-and-roll towards the wall and run up the side. I can hear bullets following me along the wall under the cheers. Balance! I've got to stay on the wall for a bit longer, so I can get a good shot-

_Fwooooooommmm!_ My concentrated burst of psychic energy hurdles towards the old man. He's made of stone, this guy; everybody else gets knocked to the ground, but his footing just wavers. Man! That usually gives me time to think!

Something hits my toe and I stumble off the wall; that last bullet. Ouch. But it looks like it worked; he's shaking in place. It takes a while to come to your senses. I get up and run towards him, ready to end this round-

"_Don't! Don't do it!" _He's…what's wrong with him? He's a deer in headlights. Obviously not talking to me… Did I pull another trigger? _"Don't let him take me!"_

What's going on?

* * *

"_Please… please don't take me! Please…" I call out to the one taking me, and to the two watching it all happen. Before I'm locked away, I see a tear falling off her cheek. I reach for her._

"Mariiiiaaaaaaa!"-

This kid's worse than any other. Not only does he have a smart mouth, but he made me relive that-

I'm growling as I recover from the scrape on my cheek. Crap, c'mon, stay strong; there's no way he meant to do that; no one knows that, _don't kill him! If you kill him, you can kill yourself afterward, got that?_

I shake it off. "Right," I puff, smearing the blood off my muzzle. He's roughed me up, roughed me up more than any other… I made sure I couldn't kill him yesterday…

Fine then. You wanna play rough? You wanna make this a match to remember? Wanna go toe-to-toe with the _real _me? Let's _go!_

I slide under him as he charges at me, helping myself to his armory. It's a sword you'd find in the Middle Ages. I can use this, and it comes in handy as I block his hand-knives from scratching up my face. I force the kid back and he stumbles. I speed towards the kid and give him a kick to bring him back up, punching a little red out of him, and kick him back to the wall.

Now there's a searing gold fire in his eyes, and he growls as he exchanges the two knives for a Japanese sword. I brace the sword in front for impact as he charges with a battle wail.

His sword gives him speed, and mine gives me a little more weight to work with. Mine can shake off a blow from his, while I have to move it quick enough to block his next move.

The fans are acting like the whole arena's red (they're vampires eager for blood) but there's only a few drops on the ground. The noise is the heaviest weight on me, on top of sore muscles. When are they gonna end this round?

The one thing the sword fails to do is absorb another psychic burst and I'm sent flying into the wall. Anything that hurt a moment before has become agonizing, and the noise is ear-splitting; not sure if that was Silver's attack or the fans getting crazed. My whole body's a mountain I struggle to move off the ground, with the help of the sword. Here he comes. Oh, great, come and hit me back down after enduring all that. Thanks.

I've got just the thing for this.

* * *

In my mid-leap, Hedgehog says something-

My whole body flies back, like I've been hit by a lightning bolt. I struggle to move, but I'm paralyzed. How'd he do that?

At least I can still use my psychokinetic powers to move the knives in my jacket. He gets the blunt side of a knife to the forehead, enough time bought to free me of the attack earlier.

_Tinnng!_

He's pretty good for an amateur; I haven't been able to lay a single nick on him. "You're not so bad with a blade, old man!"

He puffs, trying to get my shoulder, but he just nicks my coat and I push him towards the wall. "Maybe I could give you some pointers," I say, just before we reach the wall.

"No thanks," and then reveals what he wanted to do earlier: he pushes off the wall, steps on the back of my head and now _I'm _cornered.

I kick him away instinctively, and move away from the walls. I'm burning out, running out of ideas … if only there was a big clock! I'd be able to tell how long this match has been going on for! Man, I really need to buy a watch!

Looks like he's pretty drained, too; leaning on the sword, trying to think about how to end this round…

Well, the fans are going nuts, expecting something out of a movie. I hurry to one end of the pit, and he looks up at me.

"Come on!" I insist. I know how to make this one for the books, and that'll be a sound prize if I lose. He looks back to where I'm lined up with, backing away to the spot.

"Kid, you're crazy." He tests the balance of the sword again. "If I slam into you, you _really _will get carried out of here."

"I just wanna get out of here, don't you?" He seems pleasantly surprised when I say this.

"I know that better than anyone."

"Let's make the recap at nine," I offer.

* * *

He's certainly spunky, that Phoenicia. There's no telling what he'll think up next. I let out a heavy sigh; even though he wants to get out of this hell, he really has no idea what a seventy-seven pound train collision feels like. Or the momentum of that converted into a thrust of a blade.

But he's exhausted, and he doesn't think he's got anything left to lose, except his winning streak, which seems like a small price for being subjected to this. I was also considering letting the punk finish me off.

"If you insist," I say, curtsying. He smiles and drops down into a stance, like this is the hundred-kilometer dash. I copy him, but without the sword pointed out. If I ram him, the worst I can do is crack a few ribs.

I really don't have the energy to run… but soon I won't have to move at all, right?

There's an unspoken countdown between us, and when it ends, we dart towards each other. A few moments away from impact, we leap towards each other, ready to end this-

We don't have to.

A shrill, buzzing sound lets us drop to the ground, inches from impact. Anything that felt lke a pull feels like a tear now. We're panting, stringless puppets now.

Fingers clutch my hand and shift it back and forth. "Good…" he pants, "good game."

"Do…do you know… what that's all about?" I ask. He lets out a confused gasp. "That's…that's the emergency buzzer…" I glance towards him. His face is drained of anything left in it, his eyes turn into dots, and before the blobs of white clamp around him to clean him up, I hear the faintest whisper:

"_Mom."_


End file.
